


Something There

by sweetfayetanner



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-28 17:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13908870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfayetanner/pseuds/sweetfayetanner
Summary: AU. Belle races off to the village to save Maurice, but the curse wipes away all of her memories of the Beast and his enchanted castle. Can she still break the curse before the last petal falls?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this AMAZING prompt on Tumblr. http://tinydooms.tumblr.com/post/171582943692/headcannon-time-anyone-who-leaves-the-castle
> 
> Thanks to @tinydooms for letting me run with it!

Belle is a streak of gold against endless white, dashing through the trees with a single thought to propel her and Philippe forward: _Papa_. Winter bites at her bare skin, her arms and face numb and turning red, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes from the swirl of bitter wind. Her skirts flutter in her wake, her hair a windswept mess, strands sticking to her cheek. Belle’s knuckles blanch as her hold on Philippe’s reins tighten, spurring him to go faster.

The snow begins to fade, the stray flakes that drift into her chestnut curls the only reminder that she’s escaped a blizzard. Brown grass and tree roots peek out from beneath melting piles of snow until, almost suddenly, they’re in the midst of a lush forest in full bloom. A canopy of leaves. Lush undergrowth. Summer flowers, their aroma strong and sweet, even though Belle can’t find them in the dark of night.

A tear escapes to slide down her cheek. Belle swears it’s from the cold, the winter that had just been in the space summer now occupies. But there’s an ache in her chest, of a missing piece, something left behind. Something that’s now lost.

_No_ , Belle thinks. She must be mistaken. _It’s Papa. You’re frightened for Papa._

Another tear makes its slow descent, dripping from her chin. Her mind races in time to Philippe’s hooves upon the ground. Panic seizes her lungs, a rush that leaves her nearly dizzy. Where had she come from? What had left her in the forest in the dead of night, dressed in a gown she could never afford? _Where had she been?_

Belle stifles a sob—the longing she feels is a heavy weight, suffocating, overwhelming, but she doesn’t know why it’s there, what it’s for. Her body shakes with the effort of keeping in her tears; they blur her vision, stubborn and insistent, until finally she lets them free. It doesn’t make sense, her weeping over something that was never there. Something she cannot even name. Why is she crying?

Why does it feel as though she’s lost something? Her heart feels empty, split in two by some inexplicable force.

_Papa_ , Belle tells herself as she reaches the outskirts of Villeneuve. By the time Philippe thunders down the quaint cobblestone streets—though often unkind, Belle is thankful for their familiarity—her tears have dried. Her longing is nothing but a phantom, some ridiculous thing forgotten amongst the trees in the forest.

Anger flares in her veins, a halo of torchlight glowing from the square. Loud, taunting voices drift toward her, and Belle recognizes the brutish tone that rises above them. Philippe skids to a halt just as Gaston is shoving her father into a crude wagon with iron bars to the chorus of teasing and laughter. The villagers are gathered as if they are a single entity, a force swayed by whatever ugly words Gaston is telling them. They’ve turned against her father, hurt him without Belle knowing why, and she should have been there. Should have helped him. Should have defended him against their cruelty before they decided to cast him away.

What had kept her from her father?  

“ _Stop_!” Belle commands, her voice sharp as her boots hit the ground.

An antique mirror is heavy in her hand, her fist wrapped around it as if it’s meant to be important. Belle lifts it, cradling it in her palms. It’s an ornate, intricately carved looking glass, so obtrusive that Belle can’t understand how she might’ve forgotten it. She trails her fingers along the surface, deep lines etched between her brows as she studies her own reflection. Belle almost expects to find something else there—her heart leaps at the strange thought, a yearning that she can’t fathom gone as fast as it had appeared.

“Belle?” Gaston’s voice startles her out of the spell.

Narrowing her eyes, Belle pushes past Gaston to the wagon, jumping up to grab her father’s frantic hands. His touch is cold, desperate, but reassuring.

“Belle,” her papa sighs. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“It’s all right, Papa, I’m here now,” she assures him before turning to Gaston and the encroaching hoard of villagers. “ _Let him out_ , Gaston. My father’s _not_ crazy.”

Belle hops down from the edge of the wagon, meeting Gaston’s smug look with a defiant glare.

“You know how loyal I am to your family, but your father’s been making some unbelievable claims,” Gaston tells her. “Going on about how he disappeared into the forest and you came after him.”

He steps closer to her, as if meaning to corner her, intimidate her. His eyes travel down the length of her gown, leering, and the intensity of it makes her recoil. _Brute._

“But, quite conveniently, he can’t bring himself to explain where the two of you might’ve disappeared. He tells us you were in some kind of danger, but claims he can’t remember what it was. Perhaps now that you’re here, Belle, you can tell us yourself.” 

Belle glances at her father, meeting his eyes through iron bars. She huffs out a frustrated sound, all of the words and feelings dancing on the tip of her tongue, lost before she can even articulate them.

“Dressed as you are, it’s a wonder you even returned to Villeneuve,” Gaston laughs.

“I…” Belle stumbles, but nothing comes. Nothing. How could there have been _nothing_? It was strange, wasn’t it? That neither she nor her father could recall what it was that had drawn them into the deepest part of the forest?

There was no reasonable explanation for their shared lapse in memory, the large swathe of time that had, somehow, been stolen from them. Belle’s fingers knead at the silk of her gown, bright like the summer sun in the midst of the night. The delicate gold embroidery glitters in the villagers’ torchlight, just like…

Just like _what_?

“I don’t know,” she finally admits aloud, as if to answer her own question, watery eyes drawn to the looking glass again as the villagers’ laughter stings her ears. “It’s hardly a reason to lock my father away. You can’t just do what—”

“What do we have here?” Gaston snarls, wrenching the mirror from her hands. Claiming it like it’s a prize to be won.

She gives a reluctant tug in protest, not quite knowing why, but he takes it anyway. Held aloft, torchlight skitters across the surface, and for a fleeting second Belle is reminded of something she cannot place. Something ethereal, perhaps, that defies all sense of logic and reason.

_There’s something there_ , Belle thinks. _But what?_

Belle’s lower lip trembles, and she sinks her teeth into it to dam the fresh swell of tears.

“Where did you get this?” Gaston wants to know.

And she _should_ know. A part of her feels this object, this beautiful mirror, is supposed to mean something to her. How could she forget, when the rush of emotion it had brought back seemed to abruptly consume her whole?

“It was a gift,” Belle hears herself saying. She doesn’t know where it comes from, what it means, but it doesn’t feel like a lie.

Gaston gives her a mocking laugh, sharp against her ears. “From _who_ , Belle?”

Her mouth opens as if the answer is there, but she cannot find it. The frustration makes her hands curl into fists at her sides.

“Well, then,” Gaston lifts his chin, pleased with himself. “If you don’t have an explanation for us, perhaps you should join your father.”

He raises the mirror above his head, a motion that Belle recognizes with a painful lurch of her stomach. Mere feet away, Belle notices LeFou cringe, like their thoughts are attuned. In her mind’s eye, she watches the mirror thrown from his grasp to shatter all over the cobblestones, jagged pieces of glass catching the halo of orange light as they scatter.

“ _No_ ,” she screams, her feet moving quicker than her thoughts.

Belle rushes at him, furious hands pressing against his chest, grasping at his leather coat until her nails sink into the back of his hand. She claws at his wrist, his knuckles, leaving behind long scratches on his skin. Gaston hisses in pain, and at last the mirror falls into Belle’s open palm where it belongs. His dark eyes wide, swimming with firelight, he stares at the marks she’s left on him before he turns his gaze toward her.

Gaston raises his hand—this time poised to strike _her_ , his palm open. LeFou catches his elbow at the last second, leveling him with a single, pointed look, and Gaston relents.

“She’s just as crazy as the old man,” Gaston declares. “Take her away!”

Rough fingers wrap around her arms from behind, pulling her away toward the wagon. Belle hears the frenzied shouts of her father, but they’re drowned out by the villagers’ cheers of approval. Even LeFou and Père Robert cannot silence the crowd, cannot convince them that this is wrong—this is all so, _so_ wrong and Belle feels powerless to stop it.

Père Robert’s pleading look finds Belle one last, desperate time as they force her up into the wagon, his sorrow palpable in the distance that separates them. She falls into the safety of her father’s arms when the doors close on the two of them. He holds her as the lock clicks, and Belle is grateful, at least, that they are together.

Belle cradles the mirror against her chest, next to her heart.


	2. Chapter 2

The amber light of the villagers’ torches falls into the wagon through the iron bars, throwing shadows that flicker across Maurice and Belle’s faces. Voices linger outside, perhaps to watch the spectacle, and Belle hears the pitched laugh of the wagon’s owner—D’Arque, she thinks Gaston had called him—pierce the hum of the crowd. She lets Maurice go to settle in the empty space across from him, but there isn’t much space to occupy. Her yellow silk skirts fill up much of it, pooling delicately between them in the darkened wagon. Belle feels her father’s eyes on her, but she can’t bring herself to look at him. The soft wall presses against her back as she burrows into it, the mirror tucked against her chest. Something is wrong. She cannot figure out what it is, but the thought nags at her from far away, a distance that seems insurmountable. If only she could reach it, hold onto it…

“This is all my fault, Papa,” Belle says. “I should have been there with you, to stop them. I don’t know why I wasn’t.”

“No,” Maurice says, softly. “Belle…you mustn’t blame yourself for this. Any of it.” He leans up against the opposite wall, a mirror image, his elbows resting on his bent knees. “If I…well, if I had any choice in the matter, you wouldn’t be sharing this fate with me. But I am glad to see your face again.”

She finds him under her lashes, her thumb tracing the carvings in the back of the mirror. “Isn’t it strange that neither of us can remember what was in the woods?”

“Curious,” Maurice whispers. His eyes shine in the uneven light as they sweep across yards and yards of gorgeous silk. “You look…beautiful,” he sighs, seeming a world away, to decades past. “That is not to say you don’t _always_ look beautiful…certainly not. It truly is a wonder where you came upon such a fine gown.”

The corner of Belle’s lips quirk upward in a smile, despite their bleak situation. She dares a glance out the window. Gaston and D’Arque are still caught up in whatever it is they’re talking about, Gaston’s arms crossed over his chest as D’Arque speaks with his hands.

“What do you remember?” she asks.

Maurice stares off into a corner, rifling through his memories. “There was the…journey to the market, of course, and Philippe and I—”

Belle’s eyes narrow. “And did you make it there?”

“No…” Maurice answers slowly in a drawl, once the realization dawns on him. “No, I don’t believe we did.”

“Something must have stopped you,” Belle muses.

“Well, yes, I suppose you’re right,” Maurice agrees. “But perhaps we should be asking ourselves what might have led you back _here_. It’s…awfully fortuitous that you returned to Villeneuve to find me in this,” he gestures to the wagon at large, “predicament, as it were.”

“Yes,” Belle says, unable to keep the fervor from creeping in. They’ve found a thread, at least. “ _Yes_ , Papa. I _knew_ you were in danger, I remember that now. It’s the only thought that stayed with me as we rode to the village.”

“How could you have known?”

She shakes her head, chestnut waves falling across one shoulder. “It feels like I’ve lost something important to me,” she whispers. “I don’t know what it is…I can’t explain it, but there’s a part of me that’s missing, somehow.” Belle’s voice breaks, a fragile sound as she continues. “A feeling so strong that it nearly makes my chest ache.” She feels a hot tear make its way to the edge of her nose.

Maurice reaches across the space between them and takes one of Belle’s hands between his own. Belle sniffles, letting the mirror fall into her lap among the pile of crisp silk.

“You know,” he says, in the solemn, wistful tone she remembers from her childhood, “I felt that way after I lost your mother.”

Belle’s crying again, warm tears trickling down her chin, catching the light before they fall onto the surface of the mirror like rain. She cannot stop herself now, and she doesn’t care to, not when it feels as if her soul has been shattered into tiny pieces. She doesn’t want to think of her father suffering like this with nowhere to find comfort; responsible for an infant while deep in mourning, escaping the plague-ridden streets of Paris, his greatest and only love taken from him in their attic home, a creaking windmill overlooking the city…

The one story her papa could never bring himself to tell, yet she knew it. Belle had _seen_ it, that cramped, dusty attic abandoned by time, a life they had fled not by choice but out of survival.

“Maman,” Belle says, her eyes wide through her tears. She digs through the layers of her dress, struck by a frenzied thought, until she pushes a small trinket into Maurice’s hand. “I know what happened to her. What you did to protect me.”

Maurice holds the rattle up to the light—the rose she’d seen so many times in his portraits, a relic salvaged from their past.

“How on Earth did you…?”

Belle sniffles again. “I was _there_ , Papa,” she tells him, a little excitedly. “I don’t know how, or why, but…we were there.”

Maurice looks past the rattle to Belle. “ _We_?”

“I wasn’t alone.”

“And you…know this for certain?”

“I _feel_ it,” Belle says, her words shaking with the frustration that seems to prickle along her skin. “I just wish I could remember. How could I forget something so important?”

Loose strands of hair fall in front of Belle’s face, her chin tucked toward her chest, eyes downcast to the mirror in her lap. For a moment, the light outside skitters across her own reflection in such a way that it stirs something within her—that same nagging thought of the otherworldly, a thousand inexplicable yet wondrous possibilities.

“Oh, Belle…” Maurice soothes, “It’s not completely forgotten. It never is, with the things that we hold so dear. It’s there…you just have to find it again. And if you feel it…so strongly that it’s like your _very soul_ is entwined, you _will_ remember. You will, I assure you.”

D’Arque’s voice rises from outside the wagon, a rough, slightly nasal farewell that causes Belle’s stomach to lurch. Maurice’s gaze travels around the dank interior of their prison cell as if following D’Arque’s path, before the wagon teeters with the weight of a new passenger. A few raucous jeers and a wild, stray crackle of laughter explodes into the night. Belle expects they will gather in the tavern to celebrate their victory. She cannot see him, but she swears that she can feel the heat of Gaston’s triumphant stare boring a hole to reach her. He will watch them, she knows, until they’re a dot on the horizon before he joins the villagers like some tyrannical king atop his throne.

The rumble of wagon wheels vibrates through Belle’s limbs, her teeth knocking together. Maurice throws her a stricken look as they leave the torchlight of the village square, but he swallows his own panic. _For me_ , Belle thinks. The guilt eats away at her while the wagon trundles gracelessly through the narrow streets of Villeneuve, horses’ hooves loud enough to make her head pound.

Belle traces patterns across the mirror nestled in her lap with her fingertips, the glass still damp from where her tears had collected. This impossible thing, a mystery that had followed her from the depths of this forgotten forest. A fragment of what she had lost, perhaps not unlike the rattle she’d given to Maurice. But where had it come from? Who had gifted it to her?

The wagon jostles them, moving swiftly to the outskirts of the village toward the bridge. Belle squeezes her eyes shut tight, willing herself to remember—one small detail, anything to ease this horrible emptiness inside her. Her fingertips press against the cool glass of the mirror like an anchor as the wagon takes a sharp, unsteady turn.

“Please,” Belle whispers, desperation making her words tremble, “just let me remember. _Please_ …come back…” One last tear strikes the looking glass from her closed eyes. “Don’t leave me…”

 _I love you_ , she thinks, not knowing who or what, only that it feels right, that it explains the feeling gnawing at her heart and soul.

A strange, bluish-white light flickers against her closed eyelids, and Belle hears Maurice’s soft gasp.

“Belle,” he says, the urgency of her name enough to force her eyes open. “Look.”

That same bluish light, like the sun trying to break through the clouds on a cold, blustery winter’s day, has filled up the wagon, forcing the darkness to the edges. Tendrils of light seem to dance around the frame of the mirror in her lap. Belle picks it up with both hands, her mouth dropping open a little, her brown eyes impossibly wide.

She sniffles, her fingertips brushing the image that’s appeared in the glass. “It’s you,” she says, and a tiny smile pulls at her lips.

The image moves as if she’s looking out a window to a faraway land where snowflakes drift from the sky, where among the snow-capped turrets of an ancient, grand castle, a beast sits. He’s just as Belle remembers—how could she _ever_ have forgotten him?—all dark brown fur and horns and paws. But it’s his eyes that make her gasp—so blue and charming and _human_. Her closest friend, her deepest love, her soulmate.

“The beast in the castle,” Maurice says, remembering. “But he took you prisoner!”

“He let me go, Papa,” Belle counters. “He knew you needed me and he let me go home to you.” She rises up onto her knees, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutched around the mirror. “He’s kind, and gentle, and—”

“You love him.” The statement bears nothing but warmth, an unspoken blessing.

“We need to find a way out of here,” Belle tells him. “The castle is running out of time…I can’t explain it all now, but I need to find him before it’s too late.” _Or he’ll never know._

Maurice moves onto his knees and crawls toward the back door of the wagon, hands sliding along the walls to keep his balance. Belle watches him tinkering with the lock on the outside through the bars, his mind at work.

“Well, if we have something suitable, we’ll be able to get the door free…though the business of jumping from a moving wagon will be rather…unpleasant. Not to mention dangerous.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Then I’ll follow your lead,” Maurice says. He looks up at her as her skirts rustle nearby. “Now, for the lock…something long and sharp should…” he pauses, considering the hair pin that Belle holds out to him before he has a chance to finish. “Ah, yes, that’s perfect. Luck may be on our side this night after all.”

Belle’s heart thrums along with the wheels underneath them, her palms slick, sweat glistening along her brow. Maurice works the lock until Belle hears the metal click, a sound that sends her heart soaring. She recognizes the look of fear that passes like a shadow, the color draining from Maurice’s face when the door finally swings open.

“It’s all right, Papa,” Belle assures him, but he hesitates. The dirt road flows rapidly in their wake, the trees obscured like smudges of paint across a palette. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Belle takes his hand and threads their fingers together. She cradles the mirror close, hoping that it will survive the drop.

A deep breath, and a leap into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I lied. There's going to be three parts. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Your comments are lovely!


	3. Chapter 3

They tumble toward the earth, the world around them a blur of dark green upon deep brown upon inky black. Belle closes her eyes, the mirror held against her chest, never losing grip on her father’s hand. Pain flashes across her arm—she remembers a scraped knee when she was seven; the same sharp, stinging flare across her skin—and spikes up her ankle toward her shin when they finally land on the side of the road. Somewhere beside her, Maurice groans as they make their clumsy impact, letting out a breath he’d likely been holding the distance of their jump.

“Belle?” comes his voice with a little tremble, somewhere to her right. “Are you all right?”

The trundle of the wagon fades, a distant echo lost to the forest. Monsieur D’Arque hadn’t noticed their sudden departure, then. Belle wants to laugh thinking of the panic that will ensue once he disembarks in the miserable place he’d intended to leave them, once he finds his wagon abandoned to the wind. Instead, she pushes herself up from the ground, inhaling the scent of damp soil and the subtle tang of blood. She’s vaguely aware of the torn flesh along the outside of her bicep, the constellation of marks that dot her outer arm where the gravel in the dirt found purchase.

Maurice is already wobbling to his feet with another groan. He sways a little, which gets Belle off the ground faster than her ankle can protest.

“Papa,” she says, catching his elbow with her free hand. “Are _you_ all right?”

He manages a smile. “Better than I’ve been in days, thank yo— _oh_ …your arm.” He sucks in a breath, and for a fleeting moment Belle feels like she’s seven again, running into his embrace with blood streaming down her leg. This time, however, there are no tears, but Maurice still wears the same alarmed expression she remembers.

Maurice takes her arm gingerly, studying the fresh cuts as they glisten in the starlight. Belle cringes, the night air on her skin making the angry wounds sting. There’s dirt staining the bright gold silk of her gown, a frayed edge and a torn sleeve where her arm connected with the rocky soil. She’s sure that there are other tears in the fabric, but she can’t bring herself to look. The mirror, though, is untouched, not a single crack to disrupt its glass surface. Belle thinks that perhaps it might be due to the mirror’s inherent magic, a protection she can’t explain.

“I’m fine,” she assures. The forest is dark and still, the stars peeking out from thin clouds. A call from an owl reaches them from some place deep within the trees, a haunting echo. “We have to find a way back to the castle.” Belle peers down the twisting dirt lane to the bridge toward the village. “We’ll never make it in time on foot.”

Maurice follows her gaze, eyes widening. “You mean… _return to Villeneuve_?”

“For Philippe,” Belle insists.

“Belle, if they catch you…if—if _Gaston_ …”

“They’ll all be in the tavern, celebrating their victory,” she says, not bothering to keep the scorn out of her voice.

“You don’t know that,” Maurice answers as Belle works her arm gently from his grip. Her skirts rustle against the ground with each step in the quiet of the forest, Maurice’s footsteps trailing behind. “Not for certain. It’s…dangerous.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Belle agrees. She turns on her heel, ignoring the stab of pain to face him again. “Yes, it is.”

Maurice sighs. Even in the short distance between them, Belle can see unshed tears in his eyes, the dark circles underneath them. She wonders how long it’s been since he’s slept, how many hours he’s spent worrying about her since they were separated. She almost feels guilt, but the hint of a smile her father offers back quells it.

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind helping me out of this dress,” Belle says, staring down at the cascading silk, pointedly overlooking the dirt and ripped edges. “I’d rather not call more attention to myself than necessary.”

 

***

 

An intelligent creature of habit, Belle and Maurice find Philippe in the front garden of their cottage home. He perks up the moment he hears their hushed voices, giving a soft nicker as Maurice speaks to him, fingers brushing lightly across his side.

Maurice takes the pile of yellow-gold silk draped across Belle’s uninjured arm. “You must hurry now,” he tells her. “To the bridge, quietly as you can manage.”

Belle’s eyes narrow. Her fingers trace the back of the mirror clutched to her chest. “You’re not coming with me?”

“It’s not my journey to make,” Maurice answers. “Go, Belle. And…please, be careful.”

Belle nods and twists Philippe’s reins around her knuckles, leading him out of the garden. They head toward the village square at a slow pace, but Philippe’s hooves are still loud in the night. Belle presses close to his side, her heart pounding so fiercely with each step that she can hear it. The buttery glow of candlelight spills across the cobblestones from the torches and flames guttering in the windows. Not a soul crosses their path; the narrow, winding streets, the darkness of the square where the crowd once gathered are now empty.

But Belle hears them, like the owl somewhere off in the forest—the distant, raucous noise of their merrymaking, the tavern where the ale is likely flowing quicker than their hateful words. Belle imagines the stories they’ll share about the outcasts they finally exiled, the comradery that will blossom out of their willful ignorance, with Gaston at the helm. She tries not to linger on what she feels toward them, but she will not forget this for a long while; how they turned against her father, sentenced both of them to rot who-knows-where. Belle doesn’t lift her head in their direction, though the sound wafting from the tavern burns at her ears.

Her grip on the mirror tightens, strengthening her resolve.

“Changed your mind, have you?” The voice makes Belle’s blood run cold. Fear prickles down her spine as a chill runs through her.

Belle peers around Philippe to see Gaston saunter from the dark of the tavern’s portico. The torchlight casts grotesque shadows over his face, and as he covers the space between them, Belle recoils.

“Come back to accept my proposal, then?” he assumes, though the light dancing in his eyes turns the question into a taunt. “I knew you would come to your senses.”

Belle’s eyes harden, and she levels him with the deepest scowl she can possibly summon as she climbs up onto Philippe. Anything to make the distance between them greater. Anything to get away from his reach. They are so _alone_ out here, and Belle is wary of his hands, his hunter’s gaze, the rumbling gravel of his voice digging into her like the rocks tearing through her skin.

“ _Never_ ,” she spits at him.

“Now, Belle,” he chides. He’s trying to keep his tone light, trying to pull her in like prey, but there’s something dangerous lurking behind his words. “You know I can’t let you leave.” He hooks his hand into Philippe’s reins, attempting to keep them anchored before Belle can flee.

“I thought being thrown into the back of that wagon would make you reconsider,” Gaston continues. “I’d planned to collect you from Monsieur D’Arque at sunrise. But since you’ve clearly made other plans, we’ll do this here.”

Belle sees the scratches across his hand in the weak light. “The only way you’ll be staying in Villeneuve is if you marry me,” he growls, his fingers digging into her wrist. “Otherwise, I’ll leave you at the doorstep of that miserable pit myself.”

“You’re a monster, Gaston,” Belle protests. “And I’ll never be your wife. _Let me go_.”

She knows it’s not beneath him to drag her from Philippe by her petticoats, and she isn’t about to give him that chance. Wielding the mirror in her other hand, Belle takes a swing at Gaston’s face—the carved detailing connects with his nose, and his howl of pain resonates across the square. His hands fly away from Philippe’s reins and Belle’s wrist to catch the blood running from his nose.

“Go, Philippe!”

They race for the bridge, Belle’s hair windswept behind her. Starlight skitters over the water as the glow of the village falls away.

 _Please don’t be too late_ , Belle thinks. _Please…_ The servants never exactly explained every detail of the horrid enchantment that befell them, but the talk of dropped rose petals and the deteriorating castle had told Belle enough. They were running out of time, and Belle didn’t know how much of it was left to tell him what she needed him to hear. Before she lost them all to the curse forever.

They reach the edge of the forest when Belle hears it—the distinct rhythm of a horse’s hooves trailing behind them. She turns to glance over her shoulder, her hair dancing wildly in front of her face. But she sees him. Gaston, astride a horse, following after her.

As if he’s hunting her.

The thought steals her breath. Even if he doesn’t catch up, she’ll lead him to the castle. That’s the last thing she wants, but Belle has no choice; she presses on through the trees, only daring a fleeting glimpse back at Gaston in her wake. His face is smeared with crimson, his shirt splattered with it. It gives him a wild look, something inhuman with fury blazing in his eyes. Belle urges Philippe forward, vaguely aware of an owl’s call rising above them. The wind around her grows cold, stray snowflakes drifting in front of her face.

Belle ventures into the heart of the forest where winter awaits her.

 

***

 

The owl perches above, waiting for her. Calling out for her. A forlorn, desperate sound that spans for miles. It waits, a small, white-and-brown speck among the twisted branches of the barren trees. Agathe can feel the animal’s impatience as her boots trudge through the snow, flakes collecting on the hood of her cloak. She’d set off for the woods after the wagon carrying Belle and Maurice, not anticipating their escape. Now, she followed a parallel route off the main road—this forest was her home, she knew how to navigate it better than any mortal.

Agathe had seen the horses kicking up the dirt and snow on the lane minutes before, the hunter stalking Belle like the game he kills in her woods.

The owl implores her, again. Agathe tilts her head upward, the snow melting into the golden curls that escape her cloak.

“Yes, yes,” she says. Her breath clouds the air. “I know.” Agathe pauses, and with an inhale, summons the magic that runs through her veins, the magic that had enchanted her mortal form centuries ago.

Wispy tendrils of golden light flicker in the snow around her ankles, reaching outward like the branches of the trees above. A howl pierces the night, and in moments, the wolves navigate on swift paws through the snowbanks. They’re a blur of white and gray and snarling teeth as they rush past, snuffing and growling as they disappear in the direction of the main road.

Agathe follows the prints they leave behind. Overhead, the owl takes flight, keen eyes trained on the wolves’ path. She has no desire to bear witness to the hunter’s demise, though a grin tugs at the corner of her lips. _Time for the hunter to become prey._

The rose has summoned her to the castle, its hour growing short. Agathe answers its call.

 

***

 

“Belle!” Gaston’s voice ricochets off the snowy banks around them, her name a sneer upon his lips. She doesn’t see him, but she can feel it along her spine, can hear the scorn as it bursts into the air like a gunshot. “ _Belle_ …”

She’s nothing but a prize to be won, and she shudders to think of what will happen if he catches up. He never loved her, just the idea of what he thought she was, the illusion of their life if they married. A possession. Property. Nothing more. Belle had never thought Gaston capable of violence against her, but what had transpired in the village square, what was happening at this very moment, had crossed that line. Quite clearly.

Belle’s heart pounds in her ears, her breath ragged as Philippe charges through the snow. _If he’s armed_ , she thinks, a gasp suddenly caught in her throat, _he’ll hunt us both_.

“Let’s go, Philippe,” she whispers. They veer off the shortcut path, through another trail inundated with snow and branches laced in ice. Belle hasn’t the faintest idea where they’re going, only driven by a desperate need to get away—away from Gaston, away from the very place her heart is leading her toward.

He follows, bolting down the path, a streak of crimson against the storm. Belle squints over her shoulder to see his wicked grin, both of them cutting a narrow trail through the dense snow. She needs to lose him, somehow, but there’s nowhere to run; he’ll hunt her to the ends of this forest if she doesn’t find a way out of his reach.

A howl rises into the night. Belle doesn’t know where it’s coming from—it echoes, surrounding them—but she can’t stop the sob that escapes her as more join in, their song building to a haunting crescendo. The memory of them is still too fresh; their fangs and claws and the low rumble of their growls vibrating through her chest. That frantic night she fled and he almost died saving her.

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. _He’ll never know…_

Behind her, Gaston startles, demanding his horse to move faster. The wolves’ paws are thunder against the frozen earth, snarling and snapping their deadly jaws in his wake. It happens so quickly that Belle doesn’t see all of it—there’s frantic sound as Gaston’s horse scampers away into the trees without him and then yelling— _screaming_ ; _begging_ , tormented rasping noises that slow and fade until Belle hears nothing but the wolves.

She doesn’t look back.

 

***

 

The snow at the castle is graceful, tumbling in large flakes that drift and sway in a delicate wind like bird feathers. Belle takes a moment to breathe before she ascends the front steps, but her hands don’t stop shaking. The door gives a long squeal of protest on its hinges, and Belle is grateful for the swell of warmth and music that greets her in the entryway.

“Mademoiselle!” Plumette swoops into Belle’s line of sight, the rest of the servant staff quick to follow.

“Belle!” Chip hollers, all excitement as he slides off the trolley and lands at Belle’s feet. “I knew you’d be back!”

“And you doubted her, _mon ami_ ,” Lumiere chides, digging one brass elbow into Cogsworth’s side.

“I did no such thing,” Cogsworth protests.

“Oh, poppet,” Mrs. Potts says, studying Belle’s rather bedraggled form. Belle clutches the mirror to her chest and inhales to keep a steady hold on her composure. “Look at you, poor girl.”

“I’m fine,” Belle answers, though the pain that shoots from her ankle makes her feel less confident about her assurance.

“And your father, dear?” she wonders. “The Master said he’d found himself in a spot of trouble.”

“Safe,” Belle says, allowing herself a small grin. “Where is he?”

“The West Wing,” Cogsworth tells her.

Belle takes off for the staircase, her boots creating a hard rhythm on the marble floors. It’s colder as she climbs up into the ruins of the West Wing, the freezing draft that whistles through crumbling stone makes gooseflesh rise on her bare arms. But she feels lighter now, free to follow the path of her heart. She doesn’t know what will come of it, but she’s surer than anything else she’s ever felt in all her years. Belle works against the pain that stabs her ankle, wrenching open the doors she’d once escaped through a lifetime ago.

Time seems to still for them both—Belle’s eyes fall upon his silhouette bathed in the glow of the moon, and he stares at her as if he can’t believe she’s real, stark white petticoats gleaming among the shadows of the tower.

She hears his quiet gasp. “Belle.”

There’s a joy in the way he says her name, a profound sense of hope that fills her with an inexplicable warmth. It’s all she needs to cover the distance between them, to eliminate the space that had dared to keep them separated for an eternity.

“You came back,” he whispers, his eyes—so blue, so vividly _human_ —taking in every last inch of her, afraid she’ll suddenly disappear again. “You remembered.”

“You knew I would forget,” Belle realizes. She peers up at him in an attempt to understand his thoughts, to memorize the exact shade of blue in his eyes, pressing the mirror into one of his large paws. He acknowledges it for a fleeting second, then finds her gaze again, not willing to lose sight of her.

“Yes.” He exhales, a ragged, tearful sound.

“And you still let me go.”

He gives a small nod. “I…didn’t think you would…” The possibility is too much to even consider, too painful to hear aloud. He reaches out to touch her, but recoils as if reminded of his beastly form, as if he’ll harm her. Belle takes his paw gently in her own to rest it upon her cheek, leaning into his soft fur.

His eyes rove across the torn flesh on her arm. “You’re hurt.” 

“I’ll be all right.” She offers a teary smile, but her lower lip trembles. “Everything’s fine now. And I’ll never leave you again, I promise.”

Belle rises on her toes, fighting her insufferable ankle to press a kiss onto his cheek. She folds herself into the safety of his broad chest, her arms flung around his neck as he bends to meet her. She holds tight to him, kneading her fingers into his fur, not wanting to let go, not ever. Not willing to let this damned curse steal him away again.

“I love you,” she says softly. “ _I love you_ …”  

At once, there is a strong gust of breeze—not cold, as Belle had expected in the drafty tower, but like the sweet warmth of a summer afternoon. Heat curls around them both, and Belle opens her eyes to see a different kind of storm, rose petals drifting in the strange, enchanting golden-yellow light. The scent of roses and heat suffuses the once darkened chamber, the sunshine tangling like vines around their bodies. Belle gasps, catching the mirror when it falls from his grip, her eyes wide as she takes in the incredible sight before her. She stumbles back a few paces, and he’s engulfed in light— _no_ , Belle understands, _it’s_ magic; that ethereal, inexplicable thing she couldn’t put a name to until now—that melts away his beastly form. When at last the sunlight releases him, there’s a man in his place, his back turned while he studies his human hands, his fingers flexing over and over.

Belle lets out a breath, bending to leave the mirror at her feet. The spike of pain from her ankle doesn’t come when she expects it to, and curiously, she lifts her arm to see the skin healed, as if it had never been marked by the gravel in the road, by the fall that now felt like it had happened forever ago.

He turns to face her, wavering a little on his human legs, so unused to his mortal form. Belle’s eyes narrow, and slowly she steps toward him, trying to connect the creature that had stood before her with this man. Tentative, she settles into the space in front of him, capturing a few strands of dark gold hair between her fingers. He doesn’t stop her, doesn’t pull away from her curious hands as she caresses the lines of his jaw, his cheekbone, her fingertips roving across his skin and disheveled clothing to find _him_.

It takes her a moment, but he’s _there_ —in his bright blue eyes, unchanged by the magic that swept through the tower. They’re filled with tears, Belle realizes, and they haven’t lost sight of her since he’d turned around.

Belle laughs a little, but her vision blurs when her own tears well up. “It _is_ you,” she whispers.

“Belle.” He takes her face between his palms, his touch warm and safe and so very human. Her name sounds different from his human lips, but there’s still a hint of the deep growl she’d grown so accustomed to.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” she admits. “The rose, and the curse…I didn’t know…”

His hand trails along her now uninjured arm, memorizing the healed skin with his fingertips. “I had a most important—and difficult—lesson to learn,” he explains. “And I had to earn the love of another to break the spell.” His thumb brushes along Belle’s cheek. “How did you ever remember me? The mirror answers to commands…I never thought it would be enough, though some part of me had hoped, I suppose. But I never thought I’d see you again.”

“A feeling,” Belle says. “I didn’t know what it was, not until I was certain I’d lost it. It was so strong, so _bright_ , that I carried it with me somehow. And it led me back to you.”

“Stronger than any magic,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “You really do love me?”

“Yes,” she tells him in earnest, a tear making its way down her to her chin. “ _Yes_ , more than anything.”

He presses his forehead to hers, sweeping a few locks of hair behind her ear. “ _I love you_ , Belle.” Belle inches her way closer, her hands coming to rest above his hips, her fingers gently exploring upward. For as much as she knew she loved him, Belle didn’t know if he’d felt the same. Her heart soars at his declaration, at the wonder of being able to exist together like this.

“Thank you…for remembering me. For returning to me, when I thought it impossible,” he says. "You’ve helped me in ways I never could have dreamed of. I love you _so much_ , my darling.”

Belle can’t keep the rosy blush from blossoming over her cheeks. “May I kiss you?”

“Forevermore.”

Belle feels the smile upon his lips when she captures them, drawing him to her, reveling in the presence of his hands at her waist, the heat of his touch seeping through her petticoats. It’s everything she’d imagined it would be and so much more; they are lost to it, a world all their own where time halts at their will.

It’s when they part, gasping for breath, that Belle notices the sunlight spilling across the floors, the smell of flowers and fresh grass sparkling with morning dew, the castle repairing and rebuilding itself around them as golden light cascades along the stone turrets. Night turns to day, chasing away the clouds and darkness and the bitter chill of winter. Belle marvels at how quickly summer has enveloped the castle, everything bright and new again like the curse had never held this place in its grasp.

Belle laughs, flicking away a tear from his cheek with her thumb. She threads their fingers together, then settles against his chest.

“What is it?” he asks. He tilts her chin upward so their eyes meet.

“You know, I never learned your name.”

His laugh shudders through her, a familiar sort of comfort, a deep, warm rumble. “That _would_ be rather useful, wouldn’t it?”

“Just a little.”

“Adam,” he answers. “Of course, there’s an exhausting string of names to go with it, but none of that matters now. To you, my love, I’m only Adam.”

“ _Adam_.” Belle breathes in the name. It suits him, she thinks. And she can’t quite explain it, but it stirs something in her, something _right_ , as if she’d finally uncovered the last fragment of what had been missing.

Her friend. Her dearest love. Her soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, the thrilling conclusion! 
> 
> You can safely assume that the villagers do remember the castle and its inhabitants as soon as the curse breaks, and they end up on the castle grounds like in the film. It just felt right to leave things here between Adam and Belle, savoring their moment together since her journey was all about remembering him. I've written the transformation scene so many times now in fics that I've tried to make each one a little bit different. 
> 
> So, I hope you've enjoyed this fic! It was fun to write! And your comments and kudos have been wonderful motivation for completing this. Thank you for reading!


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